


Disobedience

by MiraMira



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: 1000-3000 words, Gen, Minor Violence, One Shot, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-23
Updated: 2009-11-23
Packaged: 2017-10-03 15:52:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiraMira/pseuds/MiraMira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You don't remember who taught you how masters and mistresses should be served, or when.  All you know is that the lesson didn't quite take.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disobedience

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for a Hogwarts Elite contest.

You don't remember who taught you how masters and mistresses should be served, or when. Not your mother, who died in a tragic Floo-cleaning accident a few months after your birth, unless she whispered instructions into your ear between her shifts while you slept. Not your father, whose tongue was cut out as part of an earlier master's unsuccessful attempt to perfect a Regeneration Spell. Not the other elves, who stare in horror and attempt to shush you when you ask. Perhaps the knowledge formed with you in the womb, engraved upon your heart by the time you were born.

Whatever the source, the imprint it left on you is imperfect. Master and Mistress know you by name, which they should not: a good elf does his work invisibly. While you perform your work well enough that Master does not use the truly nasty curses, you are prone to thinking. Thinking interferes with the completion of your duties. At the very least, it has been known to send you down paths which veer dangerously close to disloyalty, and then you need to take time to punish yourself. You want to ask the other elves whether it is difficult for them, too, but you know the answer to that.

No one has time for questions today, anyway, as the house bustles with preparations for dinner with the Headmaster. The name is fitting: like the Dark Lord, you gather he holds some kind of power over your own masters. Unlike the Dark Lord, however, who your masters still speak of with fear and respect, they do not seem fond of the Headmaster.

Do humans have the power to dislike those they serve? It is a bizarre and terrifying concept, one from which your mind instinctively rebels, yet you cannot resist returning to it at the most inopportune moments. The last straw comes when you are so busy studying Master and Mistress's reactions to the Headmaster as you serve dinner that you trip over the table leg and drop the spinach.

"Blasted elf!" Master looms over you, features contorted in fury, hand on the head of his cane as though he means to draw his wand. "I have had enough of your incompetence!"

"Please, Lucius." The Headmaster's voice is as warm as his blue eyes, which you are able to take in more fully once you remove your shaking hands from your face. "The fault was mine. I'm afraid I jostled the poor creature's elbow in my eagerness to take more parsnips – these are splendid, by the way, Narcissa. A family recipe?"

You try not to gape, a task made easier when you notice Mistress glowering at you. "My apologies that you felt the need to serve yourself, sir."

"Nonsense. I am sure it has been very difficult for your entire household these many long months, with your husband not himself, forced to cast curses no decent wizard should know." The Headmaster's eyes are colder now. Out of the corner of your own, you see Master withdrawing his cane. "If even the smallest gesture will ease your burden, I feel that I must."

With that, the Headmaster tucks into his parsnips as Master and Mistress shoot him looks that would leave you unable to eat. You are not entirely certain what has just happened, but somehow, you think, the Headmaster must know about the things Master and Mistress have ordered you not to speak about, and he does not approve. This should distress you, but at the moment, all you feel is gratitude.

After dinner, you make an excuse to the other elves, then pop into a concealed area of the cloakroom. To your great delight, the Headmaster is there alone, slipping on a purple over-robe.

You are never to address wizards unless spoken to first. And you feel certain that Master would not want you speaking to _this_ wizard under any circumstances, as surely as if he had given you an order. But some stronger instinct compels you forward into the Headmaster's line of sight, opening your mouth and controlling your desire to squeak – most of it, anyway. "Thank you, sir."

The Headmaster looks startled to see you, but his wand remains at his side. You take this as a good sign. "I am only sorry that it was necessary for me to intervene. No living creature should be treated the way the Malfoys apparently do their servants – or anyone they consider inferior."

He does know about the Dark Lord, then. You know you ought to defend your family's honor, but Master _did_ warn you not to raise the subject. Perhaps you can distract the Headmaster and satisfy your curiosity at the same time. "Did—did _you_ defeat the Dark Lord, sir?"

"Me?" The Headmaster shakes his head, eyes twinkling. "No, no. You have Harry Potter to thank for that."

_Harry Potter._ The name crackles in your imagination, conjuring images of a strong, brave hero like the one in Young Master's picture books. _He must be a great and powerful wizard_, you think, only realizing you have spoken aloud when the Headmaster begins to chuckle.

"He may be, one day," the Headmaster explains. "But for now, he is simply a little boy. The same age as young Draco, in fact."

The same age! Young Master is very clever, his parents are fond of saying, but you cannot imagine him doing anything like this. Perhaps some day, he and Harry Potter will be friends, and Harry Potter can teach him. You think you would like that. "Then he is a very great and powerful little boy, sir."

The Headmaster laughs again. "What is _your_ name, little elf?"

It does not surprise you that you are being asked your name. Wizards only need to know the names of house elves they intend to scold for doing wrong, and this entire _conversation_ is wrong. But the Headmaster is still smiling, which confuses you. Perhaps he is trying to reassure you that it will not hurt too much. "Dobby, sir."

"Dobby," the Headmaster repeats. He stretches out his hand, and you brace for the slap. "Well, Dobby, it is a singular pleasure to make your acquaintance."

His arm hangs in midair, waiting for something. You gasp as you realize the honor being bestowed upon you. The Headmaster wishes to shake your hand, like a proper wizard! Lightheaded, you reach out to touch his fingers…

"Why has this table not been cleared?" you hear Master bellow from the dining room.

Your hand jerks back involuntarily, which you regret at once. What will the Headmaster think? "Dobby must go!" you whisper, half-frightened, half-apologetic.

The Headmaster seems to understand. His smile does not waver as he withdraws his hand and nods to you. Relieved, you pop over to the dining room.

You are a bad elf. A _very_ bad elf. The desire to fulfill Master's order and the need to punish yourself for your disobedience war within you; if you do not resolve the conflict soon, you fear you may split in two. You hope Master does not notice your trembling, and feel even more guilty for hoping to hide from him: though if he finds out what you have done, punishment may not be enough to satisfy his anger.

Strangely, except for the fact that death now would mean never meeting Harry Potter, you find you don't care.


End file.
